


Broken Glass: Part Twelve – Dusty Panes

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [12]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkwardness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-29
Updated: 2007-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for all of Season 1. This is a continuation after Season 1, Sylar/Mohinder-centric</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass: Part Twelve – Dusty Panes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _Mohinder was going to hate him. Hate him ruthlessly; hate him with that seething, scalding look that betrayed his emotions somewhere between contempt and injury._

 

 

.12 Dusty Panes

 

            The clatter of another hard knocking, fists to wood. 

            Mohinder scrambled to his feet, a red color working high across his cheek bones. He turned from one side to the next, for just a moment forgetting where he was and what he was doing, besides being kissed by a serial killer. Sylar, standing up slowly, brought his attention to the more important matter at hand- the matter of a guest and a fugitive. Mohinder gave Sylar a hard look. “Keep quiet and stay put,” he ordered shortly, hurrying out of the doorway.

            “Just a moment!” Mohinder called back, grabbing the bedroom door and closing it quickly. He held the icy knob for a moment, his other palm pressed against the door’s surface. On the opposite side was the murderer who had just kissed him. On this side was his panic. Behind the other side of the front door was a stranger. _Relax._  


            Mohinder crossed the room, feeling his face burn still but ignoring it. He opened the door part-way and for a moment eyed the men in long dark coats behind it. One man on the older-looking side, one younger. Both carried somber expressions. They did not look all that different from Mr. Bennet’s associates and for Mohinder that set off an alarm. “…May I help you?” he asked cautiously. 

            “Yes you can. Are you Chandra Suresh?” Preston asked, looking Mohinder up and down just as the man had done to them. Mohinder appeared nervous, flustered. Something that could be read easily. Preston was sure to make note of it.

            “No… no I’m not,” Mohinder replied, clearing his throat a little. Primatech knew his father was dead. Was this some sort of ploy? He stood a little straighter, taking in a deep breath silently. “My name is Mohinder Suresh. Chandra was my father.”

            “Was?” echoed Murphy at Preston’s side, arching an eyebrow. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his gold officers badge, showing it to Mohinder. “We’re from the Queens Borough police department, Mr. Suresh.”

            “I’m Detective Preston and this is my partner, Detective Murphy. May we come in for a minute?” Preston asked, tilting his head to get a brief glance inside the apartment.

            Mohinder looked from the badge to their faces. There was a chill falling down his spine and he was sure it wasn’t from the temperature in his apartment. “Of course. Please.” Mohinder moved aside and opened the door wider for the men, still wary. How easy would it be for a Primatech worker to disguise himself as an officer and feign ignorance? Who else would possibly be looking for his father? Mohinder avoided glancing back towards the bedroom door, but all he could think of was how he hoped Sylar didn’t do something _stupid._ The last thing he needed was another murder in his apartment. As the policemen passed, Mohinder noticed there was a piece of paper taped to his front door. He grabbed it off and flipped it open- the heat would be on by tomorrow morning. As if that mattered now. “What can I help you gentleman with?”

            Preston entered and wasted no time in placing himself in the center of the room, looking slowly around and finally at Mohinder again. “We were hoping to speak with your father, Mr. Suresh. This was his listed address.” Police had a way of speaking stoically with a hint of friendly tendencies, setting them aside from other individuals. Mohinder didn’t like it.

            As he closed the door, Mohinder tried not to look put out by the man’s ignorance this time. “…That won’t be possible. I’m afraid my father is dead, Detective. Several weeks ago, actually.” 

            Preston and Murphy exchanged sidelong glances. “Dead?” Preston pulled out his notebook and a pen. He thought it was unusual not to find records on Suresh… but then again, Suresh could have been an illegal immigrant and never gone on record anyway. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Suresh. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?”

            Brows knitting, Mohinder looked between the two of them again, noting how the younger one was more apt to snooping around a few steps in any chosen direction. “May I ask what this is about? Why are you looking for my father?”

            “Does the name Gabriel Gray mean anything to you?” Preston asked outright, steely eyes set on Mohinder’s defensive ones. 

            Mohinder felt goosebumps crossing his flesh. He turned his full attention to Preston, reaching up to brush a dark curl from his eyes. “…No, I’m afraid it doesn’t.” _It didn’t, until now._  


            “So Mr. Suresh, your father did what exactly- wrote books?”

            “He was a geneticist. A scientist,” Mohinder corrected, posture straightening a little in what vestige of pride he maintained. “He came to New York City to continue his research. Why is it you’re looking for my father, Detective-”

            “Preston. Detective Preston.” The man lowered his pad a little, watching Mohinder watch Murphy make idle semi-circles around them. “I’ll level with you, Mr. Suresh. We’re following a lead on a murder case from Queens- you might have seen it on the news by now.”

            “I don’t have a television.”  
            “…Right. A woman by the name Virginia Gray was murdered a week or so back, and we’ve been following a trail, looking for her son, Gabriel Gray. We found your father’s book amongst his belongings, with this address written in it. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Mr. Suresh?” When all about business, Preston’s mannerisms were straight-forward and intimidating, as any police officer’s should be. Unfortunately for the experienced detective, Mohinder had faced more frightening things than the law in his recent time.

            Mohinder shook his head. “I wouldn’t. My father had many contacts around the country- people he hoped would participate in his research. I never knew any of them. I was in India when I received word my father died. This Gabriel Gray- perhaps my father contacted him. But I assure you if the man is a killer- …Well, my father would not have associated with his kind, if he knew,” Mohinder said with a note of finality.

            Preston glimpsed over his shoulder back at Murphy. Whatever they exchanged with their eyes Mohinder could not decipher. “I see. And you had no connection with any of these contacts of his?”

            “None at all. I packed up all his research and sent it back with his ashes.”

            Murphy was the one who interjected. “Then what are you doing here in his apartment? In the states, still?” he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets. The look Mohinder cast him seemed volatile for a split second.

            “To find work. Isn’t this supposed to be the land of opportunity?” he asked, an edge in his voice.

            “May I ask,” Preston said suddenly, “How your father died, Mr. Suresh?”

            Mohinder’s jaw tightened. “A taxi cab accident.”

            “I see.” Preston put his notebook in his pocket and began to search for something else in another.  
            Murphy was looking to the side again, past Mohinder. “Did you have an accident, Mr. Suresh?” he asked offhandedly.

            Mohinder’s glance back towards his kitchen was almost sharp. Like he expected to find Sylar in his usual spot in the kitchen, only standing, this time. “…Yes. I saw cockroach and I dropped my pitcher. I was just getting changed when you knocked.”

            The detective arched an eyebrow once again, looking Mohinder up and down slowly. “I was referring to the wheel chair.” 

            Mohinder’s silence was deafening. To Sylar, perhaps, it was his heartbeat that was thunderous instead. He stared back at the wheelchair, as though it might give him an answer. He turned toward the officers once more and gave a half smile. “That was from the previous tenant, I think. I found it here when I moved in. I guess my father never threw it out. There were all kinds of old furniture- I wanted to clean the floors, so I moved it out of the way. Of course, then I tripped and broke my pitcher. Maybe now I’ll throw the thing out,” he offered with a shrug.

            Producing a card between his fingers, Preston seemed to take that explanation for what it was. “Well, we’re sorry for taking up your time, Mr. Suresh. If anyone, a contact of your father’s, happens to call you, please let us know immediately. Remember that this man is wanted for questioning in a murder and that it’s very serious. If you have any information on this Gabriel Gray- if you think of anything, don’t hesitate. My number’s on the card.”

            Taking the small ivory item between his fingers, Mohinder half expected to see a PRIMATECH PAPER label across the top. But it merely cited the 110th precinct of NYPD, detective bureau. “Thank you, Detective. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any more help.”

            Preston nodded in farewell, and Murphy was the first one out the door. 

            After the click of the latch sounded, Mohinder let out a slow breath of relief. _Gabriel Gray…Gabriel Gray… wanted for murder._  


 

            “What are you thinking, Pres?” Murphy asked, watching his partner’s enigmatic expression as they walked down the hall toward the elevator. “Seemed suspicious to me. I mean, some people get angry and defensive when they see cops, but not only did he seem angry and defensive, but he seemed _ready_ for it somehow. You get that feeling?” 

            Hitting the down arrow and rubbing his salt and pepper hair with a hand, Preston sighed. “I don’t know, Murphy… It seems like he knows something… and the whole set-up is fishy in there… but we can’t compel anything out of him without probable cause.” The elevator gave a resounding ding as the doors opened and the two men stepped inside.

            Murphy was the first one to speak again. “He’s got ‘involved’ written all over him, Pres. A wheelchair in the kitchen? What is that about? I’ll tell you- my dad was sick long enough for me to know if you’re moving a wheelchair that doesn’t belong to you around the house, you fold it up to put it away. We didn’t even wait a week to do that after he died. Suresh had his sitting out like someone was using it. And what about _his_ father?”

            “Yeah yeah, I know. We’ll search for the records. Taxi cab accident… we’ll see what the cause of death on the report is. And the date. If it’s a few weeks back… it might line up with the disappearance of Gabriel Gray. If that’s the case, we’ll have enough to pull this Mohinder guy out of that apartment and in for questioning.” Preston tugged his jacket a bit more neatly over his shoulders. 

            “You think this Gray character killed him Chandra Suresh?” Murphy asked, frowning deeply. Was that the first murder, before the mother? He rubbed his hands together, feeling the chill of the unheated building sinking in.

            “If he did…” Preston gave a long sigh as they stepped out and down the hall. “Then that puts Mr. Mohinder Suresh in a very precarious position to be helping out Gray.”

            Murphy’s eyes widened at that. “An accomplice? This is getting real serious, Preston.”

            “Started out that way when the little old lady was killed,” Preston corrected him with a shake of his head. He pushed open the apartment doors and stepped out into the late afternoon air. “We’d better work quickly. Non-U.S. residents involved in murder cases are definitely flight risks.”

 

            _No._ Sylar’s bare back was pressed against the icy wooden door but he barely felt it. His head tilted back, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, at the slivers of sunset peeking out of the doorway from the hall. 

            _No no no…_ It had all been going so well, all been perfect. Even the kiss- he had been able to take Mohinder, to take those haunting lips that teased him with the unknown. To finally discover what Mohinder had kept from Zane and what Peter had stolen from Sylar. And for all of it to be destroyed by Gabriel Gray… Sylar felt despair. Longing for time. Yearning for five extra minutes that would have let Mohinder speak, let Mohinder comprehend the niche into Zane, Sylar, Gabriel’s soul he had been allowed before the idiocy of some worthless human law abiders tore it from his arms and crushed it.

            Mohinder was going to hate him. Hate him ruthlessly. Hate him with that seething, scalding look that betrayed his emotions somewhere between contempt and injury. Sylar foresaw the worst because although he was no master at fitting in with, or understanding, the rest of humanity, he knew that people could only feel wronged so many times before they never wanted to feel it again. Mohinder was going to give up on him. 

            Sylar couldn’t even discern the flood of feelings rushing through him in those moments after the two men had stepped out and made their way through the hall. He listened as they moved down in the elevator, drinking in their conversation with a sense of dread. He’d made Mohinder a suspect in a murder the man didn’t commit and the officers involved now were not foolish enough to let it go easily. The sound of the door knob being struggled with alarmed him.

           “Open the door, Sylar,” Mohinder spat the name. Sylar flinched, closing his eyes. He lowered his head to look down. “Open it!” Mohinder repeated, voice firm and aggravated. “ _Now!_ ”

            Sylar stepped back, the lock clicking, and he shivered when the cold air hit his bare skin from the rush of the door being opened. He turned to face Mohinder’s figure as he stalked in. Mohinder slammed the door behind him.

            “Gabriel Gray? Is that it, Sylar? Is that what you’re so ashamed of? You **should** be ashamed!” he shouted angrily, throwing a hand to the side to emphasize his point. Mohinder’s eyes were alight with their impassioned temper, brows knit tightly in a scowl. “You killed your own mother?! That’s unbelievable! It –It _shouldn’t_ be unbelievable, knowing what you’re capable of!” Mohinder was practically screaming but Sylar stayed silent for it, merely staring off to the side, away. “How many times do I have to say to myself ‘I can’t believe I trusted you’?!”

            This time Sylar looked back, appearing upset as well. “It was an accident! A complete accident! I never meant to hurt her!” he found himself pleading unexpectedly.

            Mohinder cracked a disbelieving smile, shaking his head. “Just like you never meant to hurt my father? Just like you never killed Zane Taylor? Your nerve is _spectacularly_ dumbfounding!”

            “Mohinder!” Sylar began, stepping towards him. “You have to believe me, Mohinder- you know. You _know_ me!” he insisted, eyes intense. Mohinder could have sworn those were the eyes he wore that fateful afternoon in the apartment, the look he wore before Mohinder pulled the trigger. Hate and disbelief mingled somewhere amid a cry for mercy.

            “No… No I don’t.” Mohinder shook his head again, expression grave. “I _don’t_ know you, Sylar. Gabriel. Zane. I never did. And I made a mistake thinking I could _get_ to know you. You’re a killer, and you’ll never be anything else.”

            _No. No!_ “You’re wrong. You’re wrong, Mohinder! You don’t know- you weren’t there,” Sylar suddenly found himself saying. He felt Gabriel sneaking into his voice, into his words, into his uncertainty. “I tried to tell her- I tried to plea with her and I tried to tell her what I was and she was the one who grabbed the scissors…!” he was speaking quickly, voice taking higher and tremulous tones. 

            Mohinder stepped back. He lifted his hands slightly as he had before their kiss, as if he were prepared to defend himself from an outburst or attack.

            “I tried to tell her and I begged her to listen but she couldn’t see me as her son! It was an accident!” Something swiftly overwhelmed Sylar at the memory of seeing his mother’s teary eyes and hearing her shaking voice- _I want my son. What did you do with my son- give me back my boy! My Gabriel- you’re not- you’re not **you’re not**! _ “I _told_ her!” Sylar insisted, expression pained and struggling. He reached out and snatched Mohinder’s arms, pushing him back hard against the door behind him. “I deserve a second chance too!” he shouted roughly, shaking the man by his wrists. _You hear me, Mohinder…When you hear me, you even listen._ “I _need_ a second chance… And only you can give it to me,” Sylar said finally, staring down into the man’s wide, dark eyes.

            When Mohinder gazed back, he swore he could see unshed tears glassing over the man’s eyes- or was it a trick of the light? Mohinder relaxed slowly, though his own eyes were the only part of him that did not go unguarded. What could he say? How could he possibly respond? Was this the memory, the life that tormented Sylar? The nightmare he strove to kill? The last piece of the puzzle that was Gabriel Gray might have been some poor old mother, a woman who could remind him of everything he wanted to destroy in himself. Sylar wanted to tell himself that he was the real person and Gabriel Gray had been the nightmare all along. And who was Mohinder to decide which was more real?

            Sylar leaned in closer but all he did was press his forehead against the door behind them, his lips close to Mohinder’s ear. He released the man’s wrists and placed his hands against the door as well, on either side of Mohinder’s shoulders, as if to stand straight before the man was more than he could take. “…Say something,” Sylar murmured softly.

            “Did you regret it?” 

            “Every day.”

            Mohinder shivered at the warm tickle of breath on his ear. “Good.”

            “Is it so hard to believe I could be a good person…?” Sylar asked, the note of melancholy in his voice almost unbearable. How many times in his life had Sylar felt the sting of rejection as the poison in his veins?

            Mohinder opened his mouth to speak but was silenced when Sylar leaned up, placing his hands on Mohinder’s shoulders. He brought their gazes together and stared for the longest time.

            “I didn’t lie to you,” Sylar began, seeming to regain some semblance of his strength. “About my mother. You never asked about her death, and so I never lied. If you don’t believe it was an accident, you can ask your friend- the one who stabbed me. He was spying on me when it happened.” Sylar brought a hand away from Mohinder and touched it to the scabbed wound, where his stitches were dissolving away and soon to leave a scar on his chest. “You forgave me for all the other terrible things I’ve done; just because you didn’t know about this one doesn’t mean it should change, does it?”

            Mohinder’s gaze moved slowly from the wound back to the taller man’s eyes. 

            “…I never forgave you.”

            “Then don’t give up on me,” Sylar said abruptly in return. “…Bear with me… until you do.” He lifted the hand from his chest and pushed it once more into Mohinder’s hair, thumb brushing slowly from the dark flesh of his cheekbone to the curve of his ear. He let his stare linger, and then finally pulled away, releasing Mohinder. 

            “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this. I’ll… go clean up the kitchen.” Sylar rubbed a bare arm and turned away, going to fetch a clean sweater.

            Mohinder watched Sylar walk away, a torn feeling settling over him. He hated to think that Sylar was right. He had killed Virginia Gray long before their time together now. Everything they’d established, the comfort they’d created… was there any real reason to feel it should be devastated completely? 

            Over a higher body count… Over a kiss, even? Mohinder lifted his hand to the side of his face, remembering the touch of callused fingertips over his skin. What could that heated moment have meant, if it were allowed a few minutes more? Mohinder suddenly felt no more sure of himself than the day he had seen Sylar on that hospital bed. He stood up, grabbed an extra sweater from a nearby chair, and hurried out of the bedroom.

            From the kitchen Sylar glanced up, holding a mop. “Where are you going?”

            “Out.” 

            Mohinder slammed the front door behind him.


End file.
